


Castiel Hates Alcohol

by Savaial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savaial/pseuds/Savaial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel considered himself a liberal angel, capable of learning, and certainly more approachable than most of his ilk.  He liked humans, found them to be mostly of good alignment, and perfectly redeemable.  They responded to kindness with kindness, on the whole, also unlike his own kind.</p><p>But, they had a habit he had come to loathe.</p><p>*********************  **********************  ********************** *******************</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel Hates Alcohol

Castiel Hates Alcohol

 

 

Castiel considered himself a liberal angel, capable of learning, and certainly more approachable than most of his ilk. He liked humans, found them to be mostly of good alignment, and perfectly redeemable. They responded to kindness with kindness, on the whole, also unlike his own kind.

 

But, they had a habit he had come to loathe.

 

It started with the Winchesters, as most things did. At first he barely noticed their predilection for beer. After all, he didn’t drink it. He didn’t drink anything. Occasionally, he treated himself to water just for the sensation of it sliding down his throat, cool and pleasant.

 

Sam and Dean didn’t drink water. They drank beer. Copious, copious amounts of beer. They bought it by the single, the six pack, the twelve pack, the case; they bought it in cans and bottles, on draft, or even the occasional keg. They tried the beer from microbreweries, from standard brewing giants, from their hunter friends who were amateur home brewers. They carried beer with them, storing it in the Impala in a battered old cooler that sometimes leaked, and stopped by the side of any convenient, dusty back road to drink it in a ritualistic way.

 

It was the _ceremony_ of the way they drank that initially disguised their bad habit, he understood. They way they’d clink their bottles together, or sit beside each other on the hood of the car, stare off into the distance solemnly as they drank their way through a problem. The whole thing carried such importance that Castiel had accepted it as a religious homily, and had left them alone.

 

Then, the offers of beer started coming _his_ way, as an invitation to ‘be one of them’. And, he’d felt flattered, truly. Winchesters don’t easily make friends, probably because the moment they do, their friends die ugly deaths. But, as an angel, he had a certain promise of longevity, so he was a ‘safe’ drinking companion.

 

It tasted awful, like bitterness and a waste of good plants. But, Castiel had bravely swallowed a goodly portion of his first bottle. Then, it had gotten warm in his hand, which somehow, incredibly, made it _worse_. He’d set the bottle down and gone on to other things, noticing that Dean had no trouble drinking after him. “Don’t waste it,” he’d scolded. Then, “Dude. Can you even get drunk?”

 

Indeed, no. He couldn’t. At least he’d believed he couldn’t. Then, as life does around the Winchesters, things had turned nasty with an impending Apocalypse, and Castiel had determined that he needed to go ahead and thoroughly defile his vessel in a gesture of contempt for his own nature, and God, and his brethren. He’d spent a night in a liquor store.

 

It was with a sense of horror the Castiel drank bottle after bottle. Who knew that humans could be so diverse in their preference of alcoholic poison? There were so many different types of booze. Surely one of them would agree with his palate. But, gin was like drinking an impure pine forest, and vermouth was akin to tainted soy sauce. Whiskey curled all of his vessel's nose hairs, crisping them inside. Vodka, the tasteless stuff of potato, caused his stolen body to shiver and shake and gag. Wine was the gloomy and remorseless perversion of grapes. Rum set fire to his belly. Tequila, horrible and reeking, was drunk so quickly he didn’t see the poor, dead worm at the bottom of the bottle until too late, and he’d vomited the loathsome alcohol potion in his guts, forcing him to start all over again.

 

In the end, he’d triumphed. He’d drunk the contents of the entire store, right down to the cutely packaged, appalling green apple shots in plastic test tubes. And, he’d staggered off into the night knowing what drunkenness actually felt like.

 

It was horrible. It didn’t make him forget that the world was in a shit storm, or relax him. No, it made him irritated and unable to walk properly. Even flying was dangerous. He found that out very quickly, having briefly blacked out and torn out four hundred feet of barbed wire pasture fencing before falling into a confused tangle into a storm drainage ditch. And, he’d laid there until the Winchesters needed him with the Whore of Babylon.

 

They’d found his drunken state very funny, but Castiel had only wondered why Sam couldn’t talk without whining, or why Dean persisted in throwing his testosterone around like buckshot. They were better at drinking than him, which soothed them, no doubt. As far as he was concerned, they could have it.

 

Still, he accepted the occasional beer from Dean, because he liked Dean and he knew that the elder Winchester considered it a preliminary move to Talking.

 

Then, there was Bobby Singer, who drank from the moment his feet hit the floor to the moment his bottom hit the floor. Castiel had watched the man function under complete drunkenness time and time again, privately amazed at the man’s endurance. He didn’t get hangovers like the boys did, never did things in a blackout, never forgot a damned thing while under the influence of so much alcohol that he wouldn’t freeze to death if left in a snowdrift.

 

Always, always, there was an opened bottle, a glass, and an invitation to share his inebriated state with Dean and Sam, who more often than not would take him up on at least a glass or two of the worst smelling alcohol, ever.

 

Castiel had decided hunting and alcoholism went hand in hand, or bottle to mouth. All the hunters he met had savaged livers and liquid ulcers. The ones who didn’t were simply too young to have wrecked themselves, but give them time. They all met in bars, after all, or in dens of iniquity where the liquor flowed, legs were opened, and so on.

 

Then, Castiel met Crowley. He’d seen the demon take an interest in Bobby’s opened bottle. As demons were all about indulgence, he hadn’t expected the crafty double-talker to refuse the rotgut. But, he had, and Castiel had felt a moment’s hope. Then, it became apparent that Crowley was a snob and would only drink some high priced malt. It wasn’t a matter of abstinence but of obstinance.

 

Over and over, meeting that sly, strutting demon, and every time there was a bottle. He had the same problem that the boys did, he was only _picky_ about it.

 

Everyone in the world, or under it, liked alcohol.

 

Castiel hated it.

 

“Cas, you gonna join this discussion?” Dean asked, taking a big swig out of his bottle.

 

Castiel eyed the Thigh Slapper Ale, feeling a shiver go down his spine. “Why?” He asked. “I’m the only one that’s going to remember these negotiations.”

 

Dean gave him an affronted look. “I’m not drunk,” he said. “Sam’s not drunk. Crowley probably can’t even _get_ drunk. Get off your high horse.”

 

Castiel strongly considered gathering up every single bottle in the cabin and smashing them. His imagination had never been particularly vivid, but in this he felt he had a superior perspective. He walked over to Dean and took the beer away. Everyone watched him walk to the window and open it. He threw the bottle out and shut the window again.

 

“Dude!” Dean scowled. “What’s got your feathers in a twist?” He went to get another bottle from the refrigerator.

 

“Maybe he doesn’t like the disgusting swill you drink?” Crowley said, smiling. He lifted his own glass up.

 

Castiel waved a hand and turned his Glencraig into holy water.

 

Crowley stopped just in time. He looked into his glass and carefully set it down. “That was a profane thing to do, Cassie,” he scolded.

 

Castiel picked up his bottle and smashed it all over the floor. “I am sick of everyone drinking around me,” he announced. “My feathers are not in a twist! You’re all a bunch of drunks!” He threw out the force of his mind, smashing all the bottles in the refrigerator. For good measure, he took Sam’s beer and tossed it into the fireplace. “Not even forty years old yet, and you two boys are well on your way to having the same diseased liver that Bobby Singer had!”

 

Next, he whirled on Crowley, who was staring at him like he’d lost his mind. That only made it worse. “And you,” he said, pointing. “You aren’t special because you drink alcohol that costs more than Dean spends for gasoline driving from one end of the coast to the other!”

 

Crowley, open mouthed, didn’t say a thing. In fact, no one was talking now. Furious, Castiel flew away, far away, and settled to a good sulk on top of the Great Wall. No doubt, close by, there were people drinking rice wine.

 

**

 

“Come here often?”

 

Castiel looked to the side, seeing expensive shoes. Then, he looked up, up, up, into Crowley’s face. “No,” he admitted.

 

“Hm.” Crowley sat down carefully, letting his legs dangle as Castiel did. “You really had a fit,” he remarked. “How long has the AA been cooking in your angel noggin?”

 

“Five years,” Castiel reported. “I expect they all went out to get more beer?”

 

“Actually, no.” Crowley laughed a little. “They made tea, then promptly corrupted it with ice.”

 

Castiel frowned into the wind. “They’ll go back to beer tomorrow,” he said.

 

“So? If you’re worried about their health, heal them. What are you for, if not patching them up?” Crowley took a flask from his coat, making Castiel cringe and grind his teeth together. “If you want, I can cure you of your aversion.”

 

“You think if I become a raging alcoholic, too, that it’ll go smoother?” Castiel asked.

 

“Certainly. But, you don’t have to become a ‘raging alcoholic’ in order to settle down, Cassie darling.” Crowley uncapped his flask and had a drink.

 

Castiel could hear the demon swishing the booze around through his teeth. He carried on with it a full ten seconds before swallowing. The ball of anger in Castiel’s stomach gained some real heat. “What are you-?”

 

He gave a gasp of alarm as Crowley pulled him by his coat collar.

 

Crowley’s lips, wet from his precious liquor, were soft and firm at the same time. His hot, slippery tongue stabbed into Castiel’s mouth and danced.

 

Castiel melted.

 

_Oh…_

 

Maybe he could make an exception for the Glencraig.


End file.
